


i want to be well

by rustedspire



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: (realistically) happy ending, Bisexual Archie Andrews, Dissociation, Gay Jughead Jones, Grundy aftermath, Hypersexuality, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Trauma, but not explicit; the word 'sex' never even appears, heavy/stressful discussion of sexuality, it's not all miserable. there's some dick jokes, just trauma & emotional baggage around sex & orientation, post 1x04, secondhand trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10037798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustedspire/pseuds/rustedspire
Summary: “I don’t want us to be ruined,” Archie says softly.“It’s not ruined,” Jughead repeats. “It’s not even about us.”“Itis.”“This summer wasn’t your fault. I get why you ditched me now. I’ll get over it.”“I didn’t want to get you dirty.”“You aren’t dirty,” he repeats.(archie tries to process and jughead tries to help. a lot of other feelings get in the way.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from [archie's first song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BY44ehDVWXk); "i want to be well / i'm lucky to even feel love at all" kills me every time and is a major part of my archie characterization.
> 
> [hypersexuality](http://hypersexualityfeels.tumblr.com/post/145893184600/what-are-the-symptoms-of-being-hypersexual) is a symptom of trauma, particularly sexual abuse. it involves preoccupation/obsession with sex, especially as linked to self-worth and attempts to "take control" of one's trauma and/or prove an ability to be "normal" about sex. i have it; in this fic, archie has it.
> 
> [secondhand trauma](http://drsusandanielonline.com/second-hand-trauma/) is the occurrence of ptsd-like symptoms in someone who witnessed or was told about traumatic events experienced by someone close to them. i have it; in this fic, jughead has it.
> 
> this fic is, obviously, a heavy projection piece, but not entirely; i hope it reads as a natural interpretation of the characters. if you'd like to talk to me about it, or about jarchie/riverdale in general (please do!), i'm easiest to reach on tumblr at [batgirltim](http://batgirltim.tumblr.com).

Closing night, Jughead doesn’t sleep.

He sets out from the Twilight with Sunday’s dawn chill in his bones, his dad’s gaze boring into his back, and heads straight to his usual booth at Pop’s as if it had been any other all-nighter, the bag that now holds the complete set of his possessions kicked out of sight under the table. He signals for coffee, opens his laptop, tries to rub the dry ache from his eyes. Routine. Business as usual.

Coffee doesn’t soothe the gnawing guilt he feels for having thrown all his attention into the Twilight this week. There are dozens of messages from Betty waiting for him on Skype, purposely unchecked since Wednesday, when she’d confronted Archie. At this point— miserable, jittery, faintly nauseous from caffeine on an empty stomach— they probably can’t make him feel much worse. He turns his screen’s brightness as low as it goes and starts reading.

Wednesday night: _How could you not tell me? You know it’s illegal, why would you stand by and protect her? You didn’t say a WORD when Dilton told us. Did you know I would try to stop it? I know you’ve been mad at Archie and neither of you will give me a real answer why but I hope you don’t think it’s okay to let her do this to him… And what if she killed Jason? You must’ve thought of that— don’t shut me out!!!_

Thursday morning: _I guess there’s no use telling you anything because you obviously won’t act on it unless it’s to stop me helping. I have a plan and you don’t get to know it._

Friday afternoon: _Stop avoiding me. I know you have things to do but don’t you still care??_

Late Friday night: _Are you there?_ Even later, into Saturday morning: _I’m just really scared._

Saturday night’s messages are a clipped, miserable recount of events. _She’s leaving town. No one’s going to tell. Archie called himself stupid. He wanted to protect her. My mom called her a child predator._ About an hour later, prefaced with _I don’t want my mom to be right, but…,_ she’d sent links to sites about situations like Archie’s. He doesn’t open them; the previewed titles are enough. He scrolls down so that the words _statutory rape_ are off his screen, black coffee burning sour in his mouth.

_I didn’t want to hurt him with this,_ Betty continued. _But she was hurting him before we did. Why didn’t you do something for him? Why did I do it in such a stupid way? What happens now?_

What happens now?

_Sorry. I can’t really talk to Veronica about this. She doesn’t know him like we do. All of this is so scary._

Later: _I guess you were scared too. I wish we could talk about that. I hope you had a good night. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there._

He draws his knees up to his chest and closes his eyes for a while, trying to just feel the warmth from his coffee mug, feel his toes curled tightly in his boots. That phrase he hadn’t wanted to associate with Archie repeats obsessively in his thoughts; it makes him feel like his atoms are straining to escape the bounds of his body, a sickly vibrating sensation all over and inside his skull. Every noise is too loud: the hum of the lights overhead, the drone of cars passing by, his own heartbeat. Breathing very slowly helps a little bit. He writes:

_he told me not to tell anyone but i shouldnt have listened. i was trying to protect him too. we were both really stupid._

Betty is offline, so it’s safe to send. He can’t really think of anything else to add: he’s stupid, and that’s the sum of it. Whatever pride he’d felt from keeping silent as asked seems pathetic, useless, even though protecting their secret— Archie’s secret, his and hers, not actually Jughead’s at all— had felt _good_ , had been a relief, proving that he still meant some small scrap of something to Archie and that the rift between them wasn’t his fault. He’d been grateful that the secret brought them back together at least a bit, enough to start talking again; keeping quiet meant Archie tolerating him again, even though the bile in his throat at the thought of her kept coming out as shitty comments— _I’m trying to hold on to something a lot older than me, too_ — he hates himself. Bad timing with his _sardonic humor_ is third place on his mental list of reasons Archie had rightfully stopped talking to him, first place being this clusterfuck with _her_ , second being—

New train of thought. Goodbye. There’s more pressing concerns.

* * *

Hours spent trying to distract himself, looping around town trying to scout a place to sleep tonight, bear no results. Jughead walks aimlessly for a while, mind kept forcibly blank: count steps until you lose track, then, start counting again.

Inevitably, he finds himself on Archie’s street. He doesn’t turn back when he realizes. Over the summer, it felt like a single key thread holding him and Archie together had been pulled taut by some unkind force, drawn out achingly slow until everything unraveled; in that same way, he keeps being pulled back to Archie’s door, vainly seeking to weave it back together. Jughead is really a dog with a bone at times.

He stops counting and slows his pace. In Archie’s neighborhood, tree branches arc over front yards the same way they always have, their leaves smudging light shadows on the sidewalk by the post-sunset sky’s ultramarine glow. Each crack in the sidewalk is familiar under the thinning soles of his shoes. Archie’s porch light, fast approaching, is still warm, more yellow-toned than the Coopers’, much less orange than the house across the street’s. The gentle breeze feels colder than it should.

Jughead stops at the edge of the lawn and stares at the red front door. Imagines just walking in, being welcomed by Fred like before, maybe even fussed over, cared for— the thought is as repulsive as it is desirable. _Grow up. Don’t be selfish._

It’s only a matter of time before a neighbor notices him lurking. He’s not going to impose. He’s not going to let anyone know his _situation_. But— it would be good to know if passive silence is still what Archie wants from him. If there’s some way to be less useless.

He slips quickly into the Andrews’ side yard, stowing his backpack between the garbage bins; its size raises too many questions. He finds a rock and tosses it up at the side of Archie’s unlit window, aiming for the dark scuff left by past rocks, past adventures. It strikes a little too high. Jughead holds very still, all senses focused on the window, as if he expects to hear movement from down here. There’s only the rustling of trees and his own pulse. He tosses another rock, striking lower, the _thok_ sound of it more uncertain.

Archie appears in the window. He looks at the sky first, like nightfall took him by surprise, only a smudge of yellow left on the horizon. His gaze falls on Jughead, who shrugs apologetically instead of waving. Their eyes don’t quite meet.

Archie opens the window slowly, quietly, and leans heavily on the sill.

“Okay,” he calls down, voice nearly lost on the breeze. “C’mon.”

Jughead turns, the back of his neck prickling under Archie’s gaze, and goes through the motions of climbing up, as quickly and quietly as possible. Archie steps away from the window when he reaches the roof, back turned as he climbs through.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly, shutting the window behind him. It’s dark inside, but never unfamiliar.

Archie sits down stiffly on his bed, looking out of place in his own room, too big for it suddenly, even though Jughead had already witnessed most of his growth spurt. He must have only missed the last step. Or— he runs through his mental timeline again, the updated notesheet of what everyone did this summer— the big turning point is just clearer in hindsight. It makes him feel like something inside him has fractured, feel like some kind of obnoxious poetry about the loss of innocent youth, something rotten lurking in every safe place, fucking _whatever_. Selfish melodrama.

Thinking of Archie as any different from when they were kids, as something that could be at odds with their history in this room, still snags on his brain. It should be impossible. They don’t _feel_ like kids anymore, haven’t for a couple years, but the idea that anything could change Archie like this, cause him to not make sense anymore— that’s what hurts the most.

_What the hell do you know about it? Or about me, even?_

_(Nothing. But I used to.)_

He doesn’t want Archie to be alone. He doesn’t want to be kept at arm’s length. A naive need to _fix it somehow_ overtakes rationality, and he crosses the room to sit beside Archie like a dropped weight. The rush of displaced air ruffles Archie’s hair slightly, makes him look marginally less like a statue. The overshirt tied around Jughead’s waist flares out around him, a tail of it resting limply on Archie’s thigh.

Archie tilts his head a little, his right shoulder lifting barely an inch. It doesn’t really qualify as a shrug. It feels defensive, akin to a miserable _I don’t know_ to a question Jughead hasn’t tried asking yet.

They both stare intently at some mundane, shadowed corner of Archie’s room, wary to look at each other, as if it’d be an invasion of privacy. He’s not going to ask _how are you_.

He just says, awkward and apologetic: “Betty told me.”

Archie nods.

“I’m sorry,” Jughead says. “I know you wanted it to last.”

Archie goes _hmpf_ , and scratches at his neck. “Embarrassing,” he says; his voice rasps a little. It hurts to hear.

Jughead scoots in a little, automatically hooking his left leg over Archie’s right, the way they used to always sit in their Pop’s booth, or on Archie’s couch playing video games. The old habit is grounding, somewhat; hopefully for Archie, too. “No, it’s— I get it,” he says, unconvincingly. He couldn’t see _her_ appeal, at all, but the idea of it makes enough sense; a common fantasy, even if the thought of it being real is impossible to process, is nauseating now— don’t think the word—

His leg over Archie’s tenses, realizing that the familiarity, the pretense that nothing’s changed, might only do harm. “Uh— is this okay? Should I not… touch you?” _Touch_ feels like a scary word, equally poison coming from anyone, dirtied by implications.

Archie makes a disgusted noise, looks at the ceiling; his leg stays in place. “You’ve never asked that before. It feels weird.”  

Jughead shrugs a little, figuring it can be felt if not seen. “It’s just been a while. Might’ve stopped for a reason.”

“I never said I had any problem with it. Not since— like, it’s been years.”

“Mm.” He remembers when they were twelve, the day Archie had suddenly gestured to their legs overlapping, asking if it was “weird.” He’d said no, immediate and loud, because it was a ridiculous question. Archie had shrugged and turned his focus back to the TV.

Last January, he’d realized abruptly what Archie had meant then by “weird,” and couldn’t explain why it made him feel trapped in his own skin, feel like he couldn’t trust himself. Like he’d tripped over an invisible string and knocked something off balance. He didn’t say anything about it to Archie then, and still hasn’t.

He tries to force his body to settle into the right angles, chasing the familiar stim pattern of Archie’s knee pressed warmly to the back of his, their shoulders resting together, familiar and kind. Normal. It could work if either of them were less tense.

“It feels different now,” he mumbles.

Archie exhales very, very slowly. “It was already different, before you knew.” Something in the back of Jughead’s mind twitches a bit: _for you, too?_ “And— Yeah, I feel different because of the stuff Betty said about it, I guess, or because more people know, but—“

Something cuts him off, probably the same ripple of nausea Jughead feels: both of them consider the fact of others knowing something like this really happened. The fact of it being real, escaped from their own bond, a million times worse because of the term Betty had used about it, because she was _right_. The terror of it feels like a third figure standing in the room with them, strangers’ eyes dotting its body, watching in judgment. Jughead tries not to flinch, because Archie doesn’t; it feels selfish to think this can hurt him at all, as a bystander.

Archie breathes in, steady through his nose. “I don’t want you to act different. I didn’t mean to fuck up.”

“You didn’t,” Jughead says, so quickly it stumbles out of his mouth. “You didn’t fuck up,” he repeats, awkwardly. His skin burns a little, because it’s earnest but not all honest— he’s been bitter, been sleepless and sour, thinking _you fucked up, you threw a good thing away_ over and over to drown out _I fucked up_ , and all of it started feeling so stupid and petty once he knew why Archie had pulled away, but the hurt still doesn’t go away. His misplaced terror around adults now— _do you really think anyone would even want you? (no, but)_ — doesn’t help either. The last few months and the thought of Archie hating himself for what she did are warring for which is a more painful weight in his chest.

It probably shouldn’t be a contest at all. He bites his tongue, willing his stomach to settle.

Archie just says: “Don’t ask first. Don’t worry about me.”

“Uh.” Jughead tilts his head a little, trying to have tact, to imply _that doesn’t seem right_ without blurting it out. Archie’s fingers twitch and fidget, tapping together, short thumbnail scraping the pad of each finger for a moment in turn, cycling over and over until he suddenly reaches to pinch a crease in Jughead’s jeans, at the knee, holding him there as cautious as can be. The slightest twitch in Jughead’s thigh would break the grip. He finds himself holding his breath, forgetting to exhale; he keeps still while Archie’s fingers pluck at the small fold of denim, tugging very slightly, not enough to pull Jughead any closer.

“I’ll tell you if it feels bad,” Archie says finally. “So, can you just… pretend it’s not a big deal? Act normal?”

“I’ll try,” is the best Jughead can offer. The nausea isn’t going away; he wants normalcy, selfishly craves Archie’s sunbeam attention on him, but doesn’t want to keep bringing unsafe _touch_ into Archie’s life. Archie pulls his hand away, grasps the blankets beside him; the tension rolls off him in waves.

“Sorry, I will, I don’t wanna be—”

Archie cuts him off sharply, words suddenly pouring out: “The way you’re all talking about it, I feel like I’m supposed to be so scared to be touched. Scared about what happened to me. But I’m _not_. I’m just scared that I’m feeling everything wrong, scared by— being told I’ve been hurt. I don’t want to feel like I can’t touch anyone. I don’t want to be _abnormal_ , or a _victim_ , I—”

He shakes his head violently, like a dog. His words keep coming but quieter, angrier: “I wanted it. I liked her. I wanted it and I just want more now, I want all the time. Just anything. I don’t stop thinking about it. It’s easier to think about, than all the other stuff going on.” His knees close on Jughead’s shin, pressing and pressing. The pressure starts to hurt. “This much, too, just _any_ touching. Not— not just all the way. It’s just about… attention.”

Jughead hesitantly rests a hand on Archie’s arm, a warning touch, and the pressure lets up with a flinch.

“It’s probably just— just something that was always wrong with me. I’m clingy. It feels gross.”

He thinks of Archie two weeks ago on the football field, bright rain-hazed lights a halo on him. Jughead’s shitty, bitter mouth: _Girl trouble? You?_ The way Archie had given him that fond look that was missing for months, and how much it scares him now: _We’re not gonna hug in front of this whole town._ “You’ve always seemed normal to me. I feel like _I_ was the clingy one.” Gesturing to their legs: “Like with this, and hanging around you so much.”

Archie makes a frustrated noise, low in his throat. “It’s _more_ now, and before— I didn’t act on it then. Can’t, with you, ‘cause it’d be weird.”

That word makes him feel sore all over. “What’s so _weird_ about _my_ attention?” he snaps. “What about me wasn’t _good enough_?” And what an objectively fucking _weird_ thing to say, ha ha, too personal, as if he’s at all relevant here— guilt and fear immediately seize him in hot-cold chills; this isn’t about him, this isn’t about them, this isn’t about—

Sitting like this back in June in an empty stairwell, sweat gathering at every crease of his body, watching Archie talk, with what felt like a fish hook snagged on his sternum dragging him in like gravity, the hook that had been slowly tearing down their bond since January; it felt impossible to think of anything but their chests pressed flush together, as if they could invent a form of telepathy if there was just enough pressure, as if what he felt might make sense and be allowed if he could just search Archie’s mind for the other half of the answer; wondering why _this_ desperate feeling, an inexorable pull toward ruining their friendship, an urgency to the gross dreams he’d tried to ignore; if he could find whatever he wanted from Archie’s thoughts then maybe the hook would stop aching and let him rest, if he could understand what it was he wanted then he wouldn’t want it anymore—

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Archie says, more dreadfully earnest than he should be capable of. “I didn’t _mean_ to fuck up, you were— I felt more normal for a minute with her and then realized I’m still not normal at all, I didn’t want to mess with us but I just ended up— _ruining_ it—“

“No, no, it’s not about me, and it’s not ruined, I didn’t mean—“ Jughead’s hands flutter around of their own accord, _fix it somehow,_ reaching for Archie’s shoulders, hovering there. “It’s okay _now_ , it’ll be okay, because, ‘cause that’s over and I’m not going anywhere and I’m sorry—”

Archie swallows hard, grabs Jughead’s wrist too tight, presses Jughead’s palm to his cheek. They both shudder a little.

“I’m never scared of being touched,” he says, hoarse with self-loathing. “I’m scared of getting people dirty.”

“You aren’t.”

“I was scared of being dirty before her, too.” His grip falters, fingers limply encircling Jughead’s wrist, lingering on his bracelets. “Not as much. But I worried about it. About being— _weird_.” He says it with such pained deliberation, knowing Jughead knows what it stands for. Jughead’s heartbeat is an endless series of sick lurches. “It felt like she helped. That was stupid of me, that I— It still doesn’t really make sense that it was a bad idea for me, even though I also know— how _stupid_ you all think I am for that—“

“We don’t—“

“Yes, you do. You do. You said shit. You’re mad at me. You made me feel stupid, for not stopping.”

“I—“ Hypocritically, he feels wounded as fuck to hear Archie say exactly what he’d been flagellating himself for all morning; _don’t you know how hard it was for me to watch this happen?_ But he’s not going to deny it. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I talked like you should just get out because I don’t get it, and it was shitty, it didn’t help, it wasn’t simple. You didn’t deserve it and… and it’s good that Betty knew better things to say. I was just… bitter. And— and scared for you.” His hands tremble; he doesn’t deserve to touch Archie, especially if it would cause that fear in him— _worried about being weird_ had to be his fault, like that feeling in June was a disease he could transmit, which would explain everything— but retracting his touch would be cruel. “I was scared but I showed it wrong. I didn’t help. I’m really sorry.”

A long silence stretches between them. _I didn’t help_. Jughead bites his tongue hard, willing the guilt away. Maybe there was never a right answer for what to do, no way anyone could’ve helped without also hurting: his coarseness, Betty’s impulsivity, the shame of anyone at all knowing, the way Archie thought himself cruel for causing _her_ any distress. _Nothing this bad was supposed to happen here._ Archie was never supposed to worry about being bad.

“I know,” is all Archie says. It’s more of a relief than if he’d lied “it’s okay.” He leans into Jughead’s palm, heavy and deliberate.

“I don’t want us to be ruined,” he says softly.

“It’s not ruined,” Jughead repeats. “It’s not even about us.”

“It _is_.”

“This summer wasn’t your fault. I get why you ditched me now. I’ll get over it.”

“I didn’t want to get you dirty.”

“You aren’t dirty,” he repeats.

Archie meets his eyes properly for the first time, looking plaintive, something cynical in his stare that Jughead’s never seen before, searching for a lie. It hurts. Archie closes his eyes; Jughead can feel the tension in his jaw, muscle twitching under his fingertips.

“Things were weird with us before her.”

“Not really.” The lie is automatic.

“I know you know what I mean, Jug.”

He starts calculating how to quickly disentangle himself and dive for Archie’s trash can in case this nausea gets any worse. “Nope.”

“Please.”

There go his atoms vibrating apart again. The places where he’s in contact with Archie feel blunted and confusing. “It’s all my fault,” his mouth says of its own accord, tongue dry and oversized.

“ _No_ ,” Archie insists, “it wasn’t just you—” (“No,” Jughead argues)— “ _yeah,_ I was scared because—”

Archie swallows hard, eyes fixed on what Jughead guesses is his throat, or likely just staring through him. “Wanting more is gross,” he says finally. “That’s what makes me feel dirty. Ungrateful.”

“It does feel gross,” Jughead says; it feels like it drawls out of his mouth crooked. In a distant way, he knows he could shut up if he really tried, but this moment might as well just fucking happen now. If it’s even real. Archie isn’t talking about him. “I feel unclean too, ungrateful, like I should just be satisfied with— I’m— I know I don’t know what anything’s like for you, it must be all different but, it feels like I know what you mean about, the _wanting_ —“ Thinking of it at all makes him feel tense all over, hyperaware of his body just to feel that hook dragging him in again, the deep core pain of it— “I want, too, and it feels so _stupid_.”

“Yeah,” Archie breathes. “It feels really, really stupid.”

“I wish I was allowed,” Jughead mumbles.

Archie looks at him questioningly. Jughead draws his hand away, slowly, a strange distant panic in his chest rising at their closeness, Archie’s warmth radiating into him. The rise and fall of their chests, nearly in sync, sways them closer and further apart. His fingers twist in the blankets, trying to dispel the clammy, numb feeling.

“Wish I wasn’t weird,” he says, eyes down, tracing the lines of his clothes, folds illuminated by moonlight. Everything looks brighter and sharper than it should. “I wish I deserved the— the attention. If I was good…” _Less selfish_ , more willing to move himself a respectable distance from Archie, to probably never touch him again.

“At least we’re… both… weird.” Archie sounds pained, like he knows the word hurts but doesn’t know any others. Jughead swallows dryly.

“But I’m _all_ weird,” he forces out. It feels like he’s sweating poison, making the whole room humid and queasy. He knows Archie is looking at him; he feels too sensitive in every way, hyperaware of Archie’s breath ghosting past his cheek.

“It’s not like I _feel_ half normal,” Archie says, half sour and half guilty. “I know I’m lucky to pretend, but… It just feels like I’m gonna get caught.”

“I feel like everyone’s just waiting for me to admit it.” He’d never put the feeling into words before, but it rings true in his ears. “Like they knew before I did. Like we all knew I was gonna ruin us.”

“You said it’s not ruined.”

“But I’m not _safe_ for you. I’m _gross_. I’m not any better than—”

“ _Don’t_ say that. Don’t. I feel safe with you, I feel…” Archie shifts, leaning closer instead of away, reaching for Jughead’s face—

The rising wave of panic crashes into him. “Do you think this is normal teenager stuff?” he interrupts. “Does everyone _want_ this bad?” His voice cracks, full of loathing for how he still can’t bear to move, to give up this touch, to be _normal_. “Like, TV and stuff acts like it— like it’s all we think about, but, does it feel so _bad_ for everyone else? Overwhelming, and complicated? Does everyone feel gross for it? Is it just because I’m—“ He still can’t say it; it snags in his throat.

“I don’t know,” Archie says miserably. “I can’t tell you either. I want it to be easy. Like we were.”

“It’s so _scary_.” Jughead bites his lip hard, trying to ground himself with the pain. “I don’t want to hurt you more. I don’t want to be like that. I didn’t mean to— _want_ you like _that_ —” It burns his throat like vomit and his stomach feels no better for it. “I wish it was separate, I wish I was good—“

“You are,” Archie interrupts, “you haven’t done anything—“

“I’ve wanted—“

“Me too—“

“No!”

“What do you _mean_ , yes I did, you don’t know, I didn’t tell—“

“I felt so gross, I acted too weird and you left and I acted shitty when you needed help, I can’t make up for that, I didn’t _help_ so I don’t deserve—“

“I didn’t _want_ help, I told you not to tell and you didn’t, so don’t treat me like— God— It’s not about deserving anything! Let me say it and freak out later! I don’t wanna be alone with, with all this, I wanna have something that makes sense, I _missed you_ , and I want to be allowed to _want you_ , I want you to feel allowed to have the attention— my attention? Right?“

There’s no use lying anymore. “Yours. Yeah. Yours.”

“Then just…” Archie sighs, frustrated. “Just please say again, that I’m not—“

“You’re not dirty. You’re not dirty.” It takes all the effort he has not to add _even though I am_ , it takes absolute focus on this not fucking being about his own self-loathing. “You’ve never been dirty. I want us to be okay.”

Archie leans in again, more slowly. “It could be okay,” he says, voice raw with all his optimism.

Jughead still can’t quite look at him but he nods, earnestly; his eyes feel glassy, unfocused against his will, processing everything in stop-motion. Archie’s hand on his thigh, blunt nails, callused fingers. Archie pulling him closer, him complying, now halfway in Archie’s lap. His gaze settling on Archie’s throat, Archie’s jaw; feeling a hunger, and the disgust that comes with it, same as always but miles away, like his mind is just going through the motions with boredom. Archie’s fingers brushing his cheek, lifting his chin. Allowing it, too gladly.

“Is this okay?” Archie whispers. Jughead tries very hard to meet his eyes; they’re too warm, too much like the answer he’d wanted to find in June.

“Yeah,” he says, deeply honest. Honest down to his bones, plainly visible, like Archie made him see-through with just a look.

Archie inhales, slowly, shakily. It feels stolen from Jughead’s lungs, his heartbeat sickeningly heavy against his ribcage, loud in his ears.

“I wanna kiss you,” Archie breathes.

Dazed and disbelieving: “Yeah? Me?”

“Yeah.”

Jughead nods, dumbly. Their noses brush. It sends a sharp thrill down his spine, bright and dizzying.

“Can I?”

Jughead kisses him first, instead. It makes him feel real.

“Hi,” Archie says, nonsensically, when they pull apart. Jughead laughs faintly, the smile feeling strange on his face.

“Hey,” he says back, and kisses Archie again, and again— just short, clumsy pecks; he knows he doesn’t know what he’s doing, just chasing what he could be allowed to have, allow _himself_ to have. Archie accepts it warmly, pulling him still closer, one hand hooked under his knee, drawing him properly into Archie’s lap, straddling him. Archie’s hands are warm on his waist, holding tight, the pressure finally easing some fraction of the soreness at his core. His hands rest on Archie’s shoulders, shy and uncertain, while Archie’s lips move to his jaw, his neck.

“Bite me?” Jughead blurts out, grasping at the nearest simple desire, something he has the words for, instead of trying to express how Archie has been reeling him in, painfully slowly, for their entire lives. “If—“

_If you can, if it’s okay,_ he meant to say, but Archie is already doing it, nosing the loose collar of his shirt aside and biting hard. Jughead chokes on an embarrassing noise, maybe partly Archie’s name, mostly a grunt. He feels dazed, kind of giddy, like probably his eyes are shining unnaturally in the dark, marking him as— kind of fucked up, probably. He doesn’t know how to be normal about anything.

Archie breathes against the imprint of his teeth, the neat indents steadily throbbing. Something catches in Jughead’s throat, a need to keep pulling at the thread between them, guilt and a desperation to _explain_ , and he just—

Crushes Archie against him, arms wound tight around his shoulders, enough that his muscles quake— there’s that pressure he wanted, not skin to skin but that’s too— this is enough for now, this is the best he can do, feel their heartbeats at discordant rhythms, his face buried in Archie’s shoulder and he can just hope that it works, that something more _pure_ gets through—

“Jug,” Archie says, a little strangled. Jughead burrows more, trying to make no part of his face exposed to the air, living entirely in Archie’s warmth, overwhelmed by it. “What should I _do_ ,” Archie asks, plaintively— he shifts slightly so Jughead can feel— _oh_ —

Heat and panic pours into Jughead’s gut, all blood by how dizzy he feels— he has to fight for rationality, surface for air and lock all the muscles in his thighs to keep from grinding down. He has to be good. He has to— weird is _okay_ , now, maybe, permissible for this one moment but he has to be _careful_ , there’s more than that at stake here—

“We should stop,” he says, trying to sound firm. Archie looks terrified, lost. “I, I want more but—“ He shudders, realizing all of what that means, realizing for certain that he means it, no going back on admitting it out loud— “But it’s too soon, I don’t think it’s safe, and— I want _you_ , not just that, I wish they were separate— I’m _scared_.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Archie says desperately, “I’m sorry, I messed up, I’m gross—”

“You’re _not_ , I just, it’s— It’s hard—” Somehow his fucked up brain still automatically makes him snort at the _pun_ — “to think about, I wish it was separate, like if I just _liked_ you without also _wanting_ , wouldn’t it be easier?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wouldn’t you feel safer, if I wasn’t thinking of you that way? Isn’t it— selfish, and _evil_ , to treat you like that? Like she did?” His fingers twist in Archie’s shirt all the same, unwilling to part, still drunk on Archie’s heat under the panicked self-loathing. The feelings have always been perfectly paired.

“You’re _not her_ ,” Archie says, “and I’m not scared of being thought of like that, I _want_ it, I feel better that way, don’t you?”

His shoulder hurts. “It scares me.”

“I scare you?”

“ _You_ don’t, but I’m scared of— of being bad to you, of not deserving it, of how _bad_ I want it—” He replays that moment of Archie holding him, pulling him in with desire, a brief second of that ache in his chest finally fading and being replaced by an ache that felt _good_ instead of terrifying— so why did he sabotage it—

“It’s _stupid_ how I feel like it would make me happy,” he spits, “it doesn’t make sense to want from _you_ and not just anyone, if I was good it’d be separate—”

“But isn’t that normal? To want it with people you like? It’s not stupid, of course it makes people happy, I want to be happy and normal, to prove—” Archie leans in again, desperate—

“ _Don’t_ , you don’t have to prove anything, _stop_ —”

Archie recoils like he’s been burned. “I don’t feel good,” he blurts out in desperation. “I, I,” his hand hovers over Jughead’s hip, making pushing motions but unable to touch. “I wanna lay down, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— please don’t go?”

Jughead scrambles off him, kneeling on the floor, fighting an impulse to just curl up there and have a tantrum. Archie lies down, back to him, pressed against the wall, hugging himself with his fingers digging deep grooves in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Jughead says weakly. “I just don’t want you to… to hurt yourself, I don’t want to hurt you…”

“Please don’t leave,” Archie grits out.

“I won’t. I don’t want to leave.”

“ _Please._ ” The desperation hurts.

“Can I come closer?”

Archie nods jerkily. Jughead climbs up, cautiously. He rests a hand lightly over Archie’s, wishing he could draw out the tension, before Archie gives himself bruises.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. Archie flinches.

“I’m bad. I’m gross.”

“You aren’t.”

“I messed up.”

“You didn’t.”

“I _did_. I scared you.”

“I’m scared _for_ you, I scare myself, but I’m not scared of _you_. You didn’t hurt me. I promise.”

Archie just breathes for a long while, rough and unsteady, tension coming and going; his fingers tighten under Jughead’s, relax, nearly let go, dig in again, more and less clawlike. Jughead lies down beside him, exhaustion hitting all at once.

“You aren’t bad,” he murmurs, close to Archie’s ear, praying it’s comforting instead of creepy. He doesn’t know how to do this.

Archie shivers. “Do you still…” he begins, then tenses again. Voice strained and quiet: “Did I ruin it?”

“Ruin what? Us?”

Archie nods slowly. “Was that…” Barely audible, sick with guilt: “...my only chance? To kiss you?”

Jughead doesn’t answer; he wants to say _yes, never mind_ , but it sticks in his throat just as heavily as _no_. He pulls his hand away and Archie shudders.

“I don’t know what else I can be good at, for you,” Archie says helplessly, panicked. “I’m not a good friend. I’m not anything. I’m stupid.”

“This is _exactly_ why I didn’t say anything before, it’s so _fucked up_ of me— It’s not the only thing I want from you, at all, I—”

“But it _should_ be. That or I should— like you said, I should want separately—”

Jughead’s heart hurts so badly. “That only applies to _me_. It should be separate for _me_ because you’re worth way more than— _physical_ shit—”

“Why, though? Am I not— just stupid and hormonal, you were saying that it’s stupid to want, if I want so much then I’m stupid, that’s how I ended up— That’s why I deserve—”

“Stop it! Stop! It doesn’t apply to you!”

“ _Why not?_ ” He’s never heard Archie’s voice break like that before—

“Because— Because you’re good and I’m bad, you’re _not stupid_ , what she did isn’t your fault, you don’t deserve to feel dirty—”

“I think _you’re_ good and _I’m_ bad, _you_ don’t deserve to feel—”

Jughead bursts into awful, bitter laughter. “Then that solves it! The end! There’s no winning! Nothing fuckin’ makes sense!”

Archie covers his face, trying to force his breathing under control, coughing out bitter laugh-sobs. “I guess so,” he says, eventually, his voice brittle. “No way to solve it.”

“I’m _tired_ ,” Jughead says thoughtlessly, “I haven’t _slept_.” He lets himself melt into Archie’s bed, settled close against Archie’s back, trying hard not to care about the weirdness of it. “I want to be okay. I want _you_ to be okay, above all. I want this to be easy. Like you said. In some perfect world, instead of this _nightmare_ of a town and year.” Another dull laugh bubbles out of his chest.

He rests his hand on Archie’s arm again, the swell of his bicep fitting neatly against Jughead’s palm. “I… I do wanna kiss you again. I really do. I want to not freak out about it. To not feel evil. Realistically, at least not freak out until I go—” _Home?_ Fuck. “Until after I leave.”

A long moment passes. “Yeah,” Archie says. “I want all that too.”

Jughead paces his breathing to match Archie’s, trying to get his guilt back under control, to feel the moment properly. To touch Archie and try to believe it’s allowed. “It might be possible.”

Archie nods, melting a little. “Hi,” he whispers into the dark, again, more cautiously than before.

“Hey,” Jughead says back. He tries to weight it with all the fondness he can give in one word, all the earnestness someone like him can muster.

Archie’s fingers entwine with his, loosely, shyly. It makes him feel just as dizzy as a kiss.

“Are you staying, tonight?” Archie asks, soft and hopeful. Jughead nods, realizes it can’t be seen, presses closer and nods again, with his lips brushing Archie’s shoulder. “Good.”

He nods again, holding Archie’s hand a little tighter. The silence is still heavy, melancholy— he can nearly feel Archie’s self-loathing, and knows Archie can feel his— but it doesn’t make a wall between them. Something in the air feels softer than before; maybe it’s only the haze of his exhaustion. It still doesn’t feel right to sleep yet. Everything will look different in the morning.

Archie squeezes his hand briefly, to get his attention. “‘M sorry I didn’t come to closing night. Really sorry.”

Oh. Jughead shrugs weakly, a twitch of one shoulder. “I had to stay in the booth anyway. It was…” He shakes his head a little, shying away from his dad’s smirk. _I’ll figure it out._ His thumb brushes back and forth over Archie’s sleeve, steady and rhythmic, focusing on the texture until his thoughts settle in the right place.

“It was good to have time to think,” he says, a little confused that it’s the truth. “Just me and it. I think. It was gonna be hard no matter what. I got to feel it, without much distraction. But I wish you’d been there, too. To… to see if you feel it.”

“Feel what?”

“Feel the importance.” He wishes there was something else in the room taking up Archie’s attention, so it wouldn’t be laser-focused on him fumbling through this explanation. “When there’s all those people there together, and even after they leave, since they _were_ there, since I have all these memories about it, it’s like it’s always… full. It’s never just a drive-in. There’s too much history piled up on that land. Even— even after it’s gone, there’s gonna be a feeling there.”

He can visualize Archie’s thinking expression perfectly, the scar between his eyebrows creased deep. “You think it’s haunted?”

“ _No_ , it’s— Maybe in a sense?” Embarrassment prickles at his neck. “Not _ghosts_ , but like… It’s just the memory of it. It’s what it stands for. Thousands of people went there, over the years, and had these emotional experiences and, and don’t you think that sticks to it?” His head aches. Blame lack of sleep for how crazy he sounds. “It’s not just some buildings, it’s not just some land, it _meant something_ , to— to me, at least, my stupid attachment, and I’m gonna feel it there no matter what they put there, they can’t erase my memories or anyone else’s—“

“Do you think I’m like that?”

“Huh?”

“Am I… gonna be haunted, like that? Am I always gonna be— When you, and my dad, and Betty, and her mom, when they look at me, is that all they see? The grossness? Is this me forever?”

He squeezes Archie’s hand, wishing again that he could draw the tension out, absorb it. “No. Of course not.”

“Why not? Why is it different?”

He’s so tired. “I… I don’t know.”

A long silence. Archie’s breathing shudders on each deep inhale, fighting to keep even. “I’m…” He laughs hoarsely. “I actually am messed up now, huh? I’m not ever gonna be normal. My ‘first time’ story is— I can’t tell anyone about it. It’s a bad start.”

“Maybe— Maybe the difference is that the drive-in was a good thing for me. It made me… happy.” Jughead chews on his lip automatically and finds it sore. He feels uncomfortably young. “There’s more to you than that. Other stuff you’re good for. Because you’re good in general. It’ll balance out.”

“I guess,” Archie says, unconvinced. “Sorry. F-for freaking out again.”

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” Jughead searches very hard for something more useful to say, less embarrassingly idealistic. In a drier, older voice: “Least there’s hope for your next time. And you could just call that the first instead.”

Archie nods slightly. His index finger traces up and down the back of Jughead’s hand. “And it could be you?” he says, a pained undercurrent to it, like he doesn’t want to ask but can’t help it.

“You… want it to be?”

“Only if you do. S-someday. Not tonight.”

Jughead snorts. “I kinda assumed all of this is a sleep deprivation hallucination and we’re not going to speak of it in the morning, let alone _someday_.”

“Oh.” Archie sounds— hurt. Shit.

“Bad joke. Bad joke. You know I’m— like that.”

Archie huffs.

“Sorry.”

“I don’t like caring about it any more than you do. I don’t like feeling— obsessed. Out of control.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry.” He kisses the back of Archie’s neck, hesitant, hoping the meaning gets through. _Intimacy_ is completely foreign.

“I do want it to be me,” he adds, softly. “I don’t wanna pretend nothing happened. Even if I’m scared of… all this. Of… anyone knowing. What would you even say?”

“That it was my best friend,” Archie says, immediate and earnest.

Somehow it’s humiliating, like Archie’s spotlight is too bright for someone like him. “I thought Betty was your best friend,” he mumbles.

“You both are. But it’s definitely… different with you.”

“Hm,” he says, noncommittally. Archie leans back against him a little more, warm against his chest, his same type of clumsy attempt at intimacy. “We barely just started being friends again. And someone like me can’t be your…”

“Boyfriend?” Archie says, slow and confused.

Jughead’s heart races. “Is _that_ the word for this?”

“Is it?”

“I never, like… associated that word with it. I actually kinda thought... I didn’t want to date anyone?” It takes effort not to chew his lip in thought. Too much fucking thinking in one night. “I can’t imagine being someone’s boyfriend.”

“Why not?”

“Because… girls are…” He trails off. A thought trailing off into nothingness is, essentially, how he’s always felt about girls. “And… I still don’t really know if I _like guys_ or just… you.”

“Can it work that way?”

“I dunno.”

“I guess I haven’t thought about _dating_ a guy either. But… you know…” Archie shifts self-consciously. “You don’t feel it about any guys beside me?”

Jughead thinks for a long moment. “I guess some amount of my film interest is… a little bit… rooted in… visual appreciation.”

“James Dean,” Archie says, wisely. Jughead snorts.

“Entry level, but, yes. Yeah. I guess so.” He feels very melancholy, suddenly. “I don’t wanna think about… all the obvious shit I missed, from not wanting to think about it.”

“You usually think so much about everything.”

“Yeah. Exactly. The struggle.”

Archie sighs sadly on his behalf. It’s kind of cute. “I actually thought about it a lot. Like, I know for sure, mostly, that I’m… bi.” He says the word carefully, like it feels strange in his mouth. Jughead squeezes his hand, feeling an embarrassing rush of pride. Maybe a little envy, for being able to say it. “But I feel guilty that I still feel… bad, about it. Scared of people knowing, and stuff. Trying to… to lean towards girls. I’m supposed to be proud, and know it’s not a bad thing. Right?”

Jughead nods. “It feels… offensive, in a stupid roundabout way.” Archie snorts and nods. “Like… it’s modern times. _Supposedly_ no one cares anymore.”

“That doesn’t feel true.”

“Exactly.” Turning off his thoughts is easier said than done. “I guess I’d probably be less scared if… you weren’t the one who made me realize.”

Archie looks over his shoulder, concerned. “Did you think I would be a jerk?”

“No, of course not.” Jughead huffs, rustling Archie’s hair. “I just… still didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want to mess us up. Even before… summer stuff… I felt like it made me bad for you.”

“Why?”

“Because people want to be… safe? From being looked at?” He rolls over and stares at the ceiling, Archie’s posters dim smears of color in his peripheral vision. “Maybe it’s all the stuff I’ve read about… _male gaze_ , you know, the camera as _penetrating_ , _voyeuristic_ —”

“That does sound really pervy,” Archie snorts.

“ _Yeah_ , it’s fucked up, and I don’t wanna be… like that shit Reggie said. You know. A pervert. A freak.” He hates that it got to him. “Like I said, people probably already know about me. They assume it. So if I’m hanging around a _dreamy varsity football player_ , then that’s… obvious and pathetic. Bad for your reputation. Right.”

Archie sighs again.

Jughead groans. “I hate making you sad.”

“It wasn’t obvious to _me_.” Archie turns on his back, too, his gaze turned fully and intensely on Jughead. “And it’s not pathetic if I like you back. If I _want_ you to look at me like that. Really want it. Because you’re _safe_.”

Jughead stares resolutely at the ceiling, ignoring his blush. “I’m talking about what _they_ think.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Archie says stubbornly.

“Yeah, you do. We both do. That’s the whole problem, dude.”

“Well…” Another sigh. “I’m _tired_ of thinking about bad stuff for tonight.”

“Me too.” He tries to count the hours since he last slept and loses the train of thought entirely.

“Right now, I care that you called me _dreamy_.”

“I… was being sarcastic.”

“Not completely.”

Jughead purses his lips. “Not completely,” he admits. Archie’s shy grin is infectious.

“I think we can figure it out. I hope. It doesn’t have to always be really hard.”

“Unless I want it to be,” Jughead says automatically, and barks a laugh at his own weak joke.

“See?” Archie hits him lightly in the chest, laughing too. “We can friends, right? Like before. It doesn’t have to be weird.”

“Okay. Yeah. I guess.” Follow impulses now, freak out later, figure it out eventually. He turns over again, pressed close against Archie’s side, their hands still loosely linked, resting on Archie’s ribs.

“I wanna hear more about the drive-in,” Archie says softly. “I wanna hear all the stuff you haven’t gotten to tell me this year.”

He rests his head on Archie’s shoulder, breathing his scent, little sensory memories flitting through his thoughts. Archie has always been like a home, too. “It’s embarrassing,” he says, to Archie and to himself.

“Not to me.”

“My confession meter is _drained_ for tonight. We can’t all be as earnest as you.” He’s smiling, though, and knows Archie can feel it.

“I wish I knew sooner… exactly how you felt. About me, about the Twilight. I wish I’d gone there with you more.”

“See, like that.” Archie goes _shh_. “But, yeah. Same. I wish that.”

“The times we did go were good. I’m sad it’s gone, too.”

“Mm.” Part of him is still childishly believing it’s not over, that all the bad parts of today aren’t real.

“Whatever they build there next,” Archie says, confidently, “we’ll go there lots too. For the— the ghosts. You belong there. You’ll keep it alive.”

Jughead’s throat feels tight. “Hey,” he croaks, “how the fuck are you _romantic_ like this?”

“I’m a songwriter,” Archie pouts. “It’s my job now.”

“Mm,” Jughead says again. He lets his eyes fall closed. Softly: “I like it. A lot.” He can sense Archie’s smile.

“Whatever happens next,” Jughead says, with the last of his coherence, “there’s still us. Even… even if I freak out in the morning… I still want this.”

“Yeah?” Archie sounds a little doubtful, a little scared. “Me?”

“All of it. All of you. You won’t scare me off, even if you try. I won’t scare _myself_ off for long. I’ll come back. Trust me?”

“...Yeah. I trust you.”

They fall asleep, together.


End file.
